


The Extraordinary, Un-Extraordinary Boy

by The_Book_Queen



Series: Once Upon a Time [2]
Category: The Lorien Legacies - Pittacus Lore
Genre: Abuse, Character Death, F/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Book_Queen/pseuds/The_Book_Queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She couldn't save him, but she'd be damned if she couldn't save his little brother instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Extraordinary, Un-Extraordinary Boy

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: CONTAINS SELF-HARM, ABUSE, AND CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, and this was inspired by a Sabriel fic I saw eons ago but sadly never thought to bookmark or save the URL because I am an idiot. So, if anyone thinks they might know which fic it is, please tell me so I can give the author the credit they deserve.

**VI**

The night is frigid, and for a moment, she considers coming back later during the day instead, but she can't, she has to do this now, on his birthday. Wrinkled, pale fingers tighten around the bouquet of flowers clutched in them, and she squeezes her eyes shut, a tear slipping down her cheek. She hears a sniffle from behind her, and the muscular boy with long hair and a wiry frame steps up next to her, holding her hand to soothe her.

The comforting gesture only causes her to cry more, and she turns and buries her face in his jacket, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs. The boy starts to cry too, mourning his brother, and wraps his arms around her in a hug. They stay like that for a while until they can no longer feel the tips of their fingers, and they're sure their tears have frozen to their faces.

Hands shaking, she walks forward, placing the flowers on the grave, and mutters, "The worst thing was that h-he died thinking he wasn't important, like h-he was just a sc-screw up, when h-he was really the m-most extraordinary hero to ever live."

The boy kneels down beside her, wrapping the frail, older woman in his arms. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she had come to his grave to bring flowers, and he had tagged along, almost unable to bear the grief at first. His brother died to protect him, to ensure he lived a long, happy life.

And now, here they are, sixty-three years later, having never missed a birthday. She had never married, never fallen in love with anyone else, and never failed to visit her one true love at his grave.

She couldn't save him, but she'd be damned if she couldn't save his little brother instead. If there was one way to honor him, it was this, and she thinks she did pretty damn good.

**I**

There are two sides to him, two halves to a whole idiot. By day, he's Sandor Kublitski, disappointing fuck-up, alone to fight the world on his own. By night, he's still Sandor Kublitski, forever and always a fuck-up, but this time wasting away the time when he's supposed to be sleeping at the nearest pub.

It's not a healthy way to live, he knows that, but he just can't stop. He stays up to the early hours of the day, slipping back into his room through a cracked window to grab a few hours worth of sleep before having to face the cruel, unforgiving world again. Sometimes he wonders if he should run away; maybe he'll stumble across some rich family that will actually accept him for who he is and adopt him.

But of course he knows that'll never happen. When would he ever get lucky enough for that? It'd be a stroke of luck for the bullies to leave him alone at school, or if his dad actually said something nice to him. But he'd be even luckier to find a friend, or, at least, someone to help him get through the day, and the next one, and the one after that.

That's why, at first, he doesn't believe it when she talks to him.

He's at the bar down the street, drinking a diet coke in a booth in a dark corner. He's pretty sure they've all forgotten he's even there, and he wouldn't be surprised if they locked up with him still sitting, tucked away deep in oblivion. It wouldn't be the first time that happened. And, just as he's contemplating sneaking out before they notice the skinny little sixteen-year-old with a tattered leather jacket and scars on his arm sitting at the unused table in the corner with the broken light, a girl slides in.

The surprise is evident on his face, and he nearly does a spit-take, coughing on soda that went down the wrong way as he takes in the girl in front of him. Her hair is a bright, almost obnoxious, hot pink, and she wears an unnecessary amount of makeup. Her forearms are covered in beautiful tattoos, and she wears a tight, sparkly top and a slim-fitting midnight-black pencil skirt. By the time he realizes he's staring, he's been doing it for some time. A quick glance at the girl's smirk, and he's blushing, the crimson color reaching all the way up to his hairline.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he demands shakily, pulling down the sleeves of his jacket on instinct so she won't see his arms. The girl doesn't respond, and instead reaches across the dusty table to grab him before he can completely cover them.

"Oh my god," she whispers, tracing delicate, pale fingers over the wounds, and he cringes. He's never been comfortable with other people touching him, especially strangers. Discreetly, he tries to pull his hand out of hers, but she notices and tightens her grip, causing him to let out a small whimper. She gives him a look that is equal parts sadness and curiosity, and yanks his sleeve down and starts to tug the jacket. At once, he fights back, struggling to keep it on. All he has on underneath is a tank top, and she'll be able to see the still healing bruises.

"Stop it, please!" the cry that tears itself loose from his throat is high-pitched and desperate, and his tone causes the girl to let go at once. Her ocean blue eyes widen at the sight of his watery ones, and he knows he's made a mistake. Now she's going to start asking him questions about his scars and why he won't let her take his shirt off and et cetera, and he doesn't think he can take that, not tonight.

"Why?" It's a simple question, but it makes him cringe. He wishes for a moment that he could disappear into the shadows, never to be seen again. It would be a relief, actually, to not have to deal with people and their hateful, scornful gazes, and for a moment, he tries to think up ways to make that possible, but the only one he can come up with is the one he swore he'd never do when he was twelve, and the mere thought of it nearly makes him cry.

No one would care, anyway, he thinks, his mind already starting to wander, and it's like having all of the air sucked out of him. The room around him vanishes, swirling off into a world of unimportance, as the poison bleeds into his mind. No one would care; they'd actually be relieved. One less nuisance to deal with, wouldn't that be nice. You could do them a favor. "Stoppit," he hisses, mainly at himself, for he had forgotten the girl was even there.

"Stop what?" The girl looks confused, and through blurry, teary vision, he can see the way her face screws up, and he thinks it's adorable. The little flutter of a crush blooms deep in his chest, and he can almost feel the warmth of it pushing the darkness away.

**IV**

It's getting worse. Even with Devektra in his life, his only friend, he's still feeling more and more trapped, smothered. His dad had left earlier, in a sour mood, and he doesn't even doubt where he probably is. He can almost feel the bruises and marks to come already, and the fear has sent his emotions into overdrive. He doesn't know if he can take it again so soon. His stomach still hurts something awful, and he's been getting horrible migraines. He can barely walk, and his arm twinges painfully whenever he raises it. He knows he's probably not going to survive another round.

But he made a promise, he recalls, trying to stop himself. He promised he wouldn't for Stanley, and he promised her. Yet it's so bad right now, and, maybe, if his dad saw he's already suffering, he might be left alone for once. Of course, that would never happen, he realizes, his dad would probably laugh, and hit him harder, then go for Stanley once he's not able to defend him.

Wincing at the thought of his brother being beaten, he tightens his grip on the blade in his hand. He can hear Devektra's voice in his head, pleading, begging him to stop, to think. But he has been thinking, and it's only making him want to drive the knife deep into his skin, and maybe cut an artery while he's at it.

In one last attempt to bring himself to drop the blade that's now pressed up against his wrist, Devektra's face appears in his mind. He can clearly see the curve of her cheeks as she smiles a too white smile, and he can see the sparkle in her brilliant blue eyes. Her perfectly maintained eyebrows are raised, and she's laughing, mascara from her long eyelashes smearing as she wipes a tear from her eye. Shining, dangling earrings shaped like music notes tinkle as they sway from the movement, and a hand moves to cover cherry red lips and moustache of coffee mixed with cream. A soft wind blows her curly hair, and it gently brushes against her cheeks.

He can almost feel that wind, and a shiver passes down his spine. That was last week. She was laughing about her moustache of coffee, and he had been laughing too, he remembers. He had actually pointed it out. An ache settles in his chest, and he longs for her company. She could help, he knows it; she could stop him, she has three times already. And the next thing he knows, he's reaching for the phone before he has time to reconsider, and soon it's ringing, and he's praying she answers so she can rescue him from the hell he calls a life.

His heart leaps up into his throat when he hears a familiar click, and a soft, melodic voice ask, "Hello?"

"Devektra," he whimpers. "I need you, please."

"I'll be right over."

She wasn't kidding. Not even ten minutes later, he's sobbing into her chest, the knife lying, forgotten, across the room. He's wailing at her to leave before his dad comes home, and she just holds him, refusing to budge. Silently, she kisses his forehead, and his scars as he cries, and she strokes his back, running her hands through his hair, whispering things like, It's going to be okay.

This continues for a while as she talks to him, every word brining him up and out of the hole he had dug for himself, until he's eventually able to get control of himself again. "Y-you should leave, really, you don't want to be here when… when…" he can feel himself start to break again, and she hugs him tighter.

"It's okay, you're going to be okay, shhhh. Come with me, you can come with me, we'll escape together."

"No, I-I can't! I can't leave Stanley! And-and if he finds us… he'll…" They freeze when they hear a click of the lock turning, and grunting as the door is shoved opening. "Run!"

"No," she hisses, tightening her grip. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"You have to!" He doesn't wait for her answer, and he wriggles out of her grip with a strength that was unknown to him before then. But, he doesn't dwell on it, because the only thing that matters to him is getting her out. His hands shaking, he shoves her to her feet and to the window. He can hear his dad's thudding footsteps as the man stomps up the stairs; they don't have much time now. "Go!"

Devektra gives him one last glance, tears streaming down her face, and climbs down the fire escape, slipping several times as she can't see through her blurry vision. She sprints home as fast as she can, trying to ignore the screams, and, without explaining to her mom, runs to the kitchen to grab the phone and call the police. When they answer, she manages to hold herself together for only the minute she's giving them information, and as soon as she hangs up, she collapses into her mom's arms, sobbing.

**II**

She's on her fifth cup of coffee by now, and it's starting to get late, but she doesn't want to leave, and neither does he. It's been three weeks since they've met, and they've become fast friends. Back at that bar, at the dusty table tucked away in a dark corner, he had unloaded about everything that had happened to him, and she had listened intently, providing comfort when needed.

Her heart aches for him, for what he had to live through, what he had to grow up with, and she wishes she could help in some way. But, when she offered, he declined, saying he didn't want to get her involved. She still wants to help, and she's been brainstorming ways to do just that, but so far, she's come up with a fat lot of nothing.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks, bringing her back from her trip down memory lane. She glances back up at him, watching as he takes another sip of his hot chocolate, and finds herself admiring how the light catches him, shining brilliantly and illuminating him from behind, making him glow. His chocolate brown eyes bore into hers, but they're soft, and she feels like she can get lost in them. He thinks there's nothing extraordinary about him, and even after three weeks, he still asks her why she's hanging out with him, and every time she tells him it's because he's special, and he's extraordinary.

He denies it whenever she says it, but she just can't drop the thought. He's been on her mind all of the time, and she can't stop thinking about the way his dark hair sticks up adorably, or about the little half smile he gives her that she's come to love. She often times finds herself wanting to kiss him suddenly, to feel his soft looking lips on hers, and have him wrap his arms around her, lifting her off the ground.

"Devektra?" Sandor looks confused as he watches her, and she mentally slaps herself for zoning out again.

"Yes?" she blinks, and Sandor gives her a look.

"I was asking if you were okay. Are you?" He raises an eyebrow in question, and she flushes.

"Yes, I'm good," she says, picking up her own drink to take a long sip. When she's done, Sandor starts to smile, and his eyes drop down to her lips. Soon, he's laughing, and she angrily demands what's wrong. Between fits of laughter, he manages to get out that she has a moustache of coffee, and that she looks hilarious. She reaches down to grab her phone, looking at herself with the camera, and she falls into a fit of laughter like his.

Yep, shouldn't have had that fifth coffee.

But she doesn't care. Sitting here, at this old coffee shop in the center of town on a lazy Sunday, laughing hysterically about something that's not actually that funny is all she wants to do. She doesn't want to leave, and she doesn't want it to end. She wants to stay by Sandor's side forever, protecting him from harm for all eternity. She covers her mouth with her hand, wiping the moustache off, while still giggling. A soft wind blows from behind her, and she shivers at the sudden chill. Glancing up at Sandor, at his little smile, her heart skips a beat.

No matter how bad things get for him, she'll make sure to always be there. Because she loves him, and she'll never let him face anything alone again for as long as she lives.

**III**

He gasps as the sharp pain of a slap stings his cheek, the force sending him tumbling to the ground. For a moment, white noise deafens him, and it takes him a while to gathers his bearings as he hears his brother scream. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes in his ringing ears, and despite the growing pain in his head from slamming into the wall, he clambers shakily to his feet, shouting at his dad to leave Stanley alone.

"NO! LEAVE HIM ALONE!" he shrieks, tears mixing with the blood and grime on his cheeks. His drunken father whirls around, unfocused eyes settling on him, and the glare makes his insides lurch with fear. But he still stands strong. He has to protect his brother, no matter the cost.

"What did you just say?" his dad sneers, stepping over his limp, quivering brother to make his way over to him. Sandor gulps as his father presses a meaty hand on the wall behind his head, catching a little bit of his hair in between, and he bites his lip to choke down the wince. When his dad repeats himself, he can smell the alcohol on his breath. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"I said leave him alone," he spits, mustering up as much courage as possible to try to hide how much he's shaking. His dad gives him a once over, leering at him, and grabs his arm, wrenching him around and throwing him down to the ground. He cries out as he hears a sickening popping sound, and he knows his shoulder is dislocated. How can no one hear this?

"Don't you ever talk to me like that, you hear?" his dad hisses, venom dripping from his words. Pain erupts from his stomach as his dad sends a sharp kick into his middle, making him wail and curl into a tight ball. Through silted eyelids, he can blearily make out Stanley sitting with his back against the adjacent wall, face pale and covered with a layer of sweat, but otherwise fully intact.

As long as his little brother is okay, he can take a little pain.

Groaning and coughing up blood, he staggers to his feet, leaning heavily on his right leg. That was a mistake. His father looks down, seeing the weakness in his left knee (it's always been there, when he was ten, his father smashed it with a sledgehammer he had found, and it never healed properly). Grinning wickedly, his father aims another hard kick right at it, and hits home.

He screams for the first time this night, howling with pain as he pulls his knee to his chest, once again curling into the fetal position. His dad then lifts a heavy boot, bringing it down, hard, on his chest, and he gasps for air that suddenly isn't there. Dirt from the filthy floor gets up his nose, and he falls into a coughing fit. Not being able to get a deep breath is making his head spin, and it's making his vision swim and swirl around as he struggles to make out the different shapes that merge together in front of him. He can almost feel his oxygen-deprived brain working to figure them out, and for a second he wonders why there isn't smoke leaking out of his ears like in the cartoons.

Then, like that, the suffocating pressure is gone, and he can breathe again. Stanley sits, sobbing, in the corner, and their dad stumbles out of the bedroom, giving them both a look that says, if you tell anyone about this, you're dead, before he leaves.

As soon as he's gone, Stanley crawls over to him, grabbing his hand and clutching it to his chest, crying and begging for him to be okay.

"Shhhh, buddy, I'm here. I'm fine, I'm going to be okay, it's going to be okay," he whispers hoarsely, reaching up with a weak hand to brush his little brother's long, shaggy hair out of his face and wipe away his tears. He then pulls Stanley into a hug, and he sucks in the wince from the sharp tugs of pain that follow from the movement, letting his brother cry into his chest. "Everything's going to be okay, I know it. We'll get through this."

**V**

Cold wind blows through her hair, and she tugs her jacket tighter around herself. Her and her mother stand across from the street from the run down apartment building, watching solemnly as the police investigate. Dead leaves crunch under her feet as she shuffles worriedly, and she feels trapped, her jacket suddenly too hot.

They hear the scream of, "OH MY GOD, THERE'S A LITTLE BOY IN HERE!" and rush forward, trying to see what's happening in the commotion. Her heart soars, and she prays that it is Sandor, that's he's okay and the policeman had made a mistake. But, she soon sees a small, dirty boy emerge from the crowd of officers in the arms of a red haired woman, wailing and kicking at her, yelling for her to let him see his older brother. He looks pretty much unscathed, except from being covered in grime and dust and Lord knows what else with a few bleeding cuts, and he's sobbing. Shaggy, unkempt hair falls down to about his shoulders, and his thin, wiry arms claw at the woman carrying him

"NO! NO, PLEASE! SANDOOOOOOOR!" he shrieks, breaking free of the policewoman's hold. She cries out, and the little boy takes off, heading towards the crime scene again, towards his dead brother.

Devektra reacts without thinking, sprinting up to stop the boy in his tracks, wrapping her arms around him and letting him sob into her shoulder. She doesn't know how long she stays like that, but she holds the boy for what seems like an eternity until he finally stops crying, and she cries with him.

"Shhhh," she whispers, soothing him and running her hands through his hair like she did with Sandor less than an hour ago. And never will again. "It's going to be okay, I'm going to take care of you, alright? And I'll never let anything happen to you, I promise."


End file.
